Making the Cut
by SaraiEsq
Summary: John Gage had been a paramedic for over five years; he'd seen accidents, homicides and suicides. But when he stepped through the door, he was shaken to the core by the sight of Chet Kelly - blue eyes wide open in shock, deep red smears over his white t-shirt, broken glass glinting on the floor beside him. WARNING: Descriptions of Cutting/Self-Injury **SI Trigger**
1. Chapter 1

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**SI Trigger Warning**

_Sometimes I forget how much I hate myself. Life goes along fine for a time. There are no bumps, no jerks, no cataclysmic events – everything just flows._

_And then there is a pebble in the way. And the flow of life is perturbed, jolted, jarred, disrupted in the smallest part. Which is enough, more than enough._

_And the urges begin, devilishly small at first. Just twinges. I grind them down, turn them into dust and scatter them across the sea. But they return, gathering strength like a tropical storm, taking form, sketching in the details, exploding in my mind._

_And I want to look inside, to see what makes me this way, to know the source of this madness. _

_And I reach for a knife, slide the flat of the blade across my arm, my stomach, my leg in anticipation, toying with myself, trying to surprise myself._

'_Do it,' I say to myself. 'Do it, do it, do it!"_

_And then I twist the blade, and cut into the problem…._

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"Hey, Kelly, what's with the bandage?" Captain Hank Stanley asked his lineman at roll call.

"Uh, I cut myself while cooking yesterday, nothing to it. I just wanted to keep the dirt out," Chet Kelly replied, explaining the gauze wrapped around his left hand.

"If it gives you problems, have John or Roy check it out, okay, pally?"

"Sure thing, Cap."

"Okay, let's get to it, men," he said, dismissing them to morning assignments. Hank started back to his office then turned, catching the eye of his junior paramedic who'd not yet moved toward the dorms he'd been assigned to clean. John Gage stepped over obediently. "John, why don't you switch with Chet so he can keep that hand dry?" he said quietly.

"No problem, Cap," Gage replied with a bit of a grin since he'd planned to do just that. Chester B. might be annoying at times, but he was still a friend. And, he'd been a little down since he'd learned the results of this year's engineer's exam. Sixty-first was better than seventy-fourth but it wasn't likely to result in a promotion this year.

"Thanks, pal," Hank replied, clapping him on the shoulder. Johnny headed to the latrines, calling out for Chet to 'hang on a minute, you're not going to believe this.' The captain chuckled at his shenanigans, knowing Johnny was quite likely spinning some tale to explain why _he_ now had to clean the latrines while _Chet_ got the dorms, all without revealing Cap's request or his own concern. _Twits_, he thought and turned to the morning paperwork.

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The tones called the station out to a structure fire later that afternoon. After they'd done a quick sweep for victims, Roy and Johnny manned hoses alongside Marco and Chet until the fire had been extinguished. It hadn't been a particularly bad fire, but it had been hot and smoky for a while, leaving all of them tired and dirty when they finally left the scene.

At the station, Roy was first in the showers because he was in charge of fixing dinner, followed by Johnny so that the squad would be ready to go if they got toned out. As John dressed, he kept an eye on Chet who was waiting for Marco to finish his shower. The other man sat on the bench, slowly sipping another flask of water. His dark curly hair – sweaty and sticking up wildly after its confinement under a helmet – and the smudges of soot on his mustachioed face gave him an almost comical appearance. Except for his expression.

_He looks tired_, Johnny thought, wondering if it was more than just the fire. After Marco hopped out, Chet pulled himself upright and walked over to the shower, leaving the half-empty water bottle and a dirty bandage on the bench. Dressed, Johnny stepped out into the bay, giving Mike Stoker the high sign for the showers as he did.

Chet emerged a few minutes later, one towel wrapped around his waist and another draped across his shoulders as usual, and plopped down on the bench in front of his locker with a sigh. Supplies in hand, Johnny was sitting in his own locker, waiting for him.

Chet was looking at his palm but Johnny wasn't sure he was seeing it. "Chet?" he asked quietly, after Mike had stepped into the shower. "Do you want me to bandage that hand now or after you get dressed?"

"Hmm?"

"Your hand, Chester B. Now or later?"

"What? Oh, the hand. Now's fine," Kelly said, holding it out to the paramedic. Johnny angled the hand to get a good long look at the slash across Chet's palm. It wasn't bad but it had probably smarted at the time. After cleaning the cut gently and applying some salve, Johnny deftly wrapped Chet's hand back up.

"There you go, pally, good as new," John said with a smile as he finished.

"Thanks, babe," came Kelly's reply as he flexed his hand to check the stability of the bandage. Satisfied, he pulled the towel from his shoulder and used it to rub at his hair.

"Whoa!" John exclaimed as he caught sight of Chet's shoulder. A long-healed scar ran for about eight inches diagonally across Kelly's left scapula. "Where'd you get _that_?" he asked, then blushed at his tactlessness. "Sorry," he muttered.

Chet gave a little chuckle at John's reactions. "No big deal, man. I got it when I was just a kid. A shed caught fire and I tried to put it out. Ended up getting hit by a burning wood beam and that," he said, indicating the scar with a shrug, "was the result. My mom was none too pleased, but she did get my dad to start teaching me the basics of firefighting then, if only to keep me from getting killed by sheer stupidity – like, I dunno, running into unstable burning buildings instead of using a garden hose – before I was a teenager."

"How old _were_ you?"

"Eleven."

"You amaze me, Chester B., you really do," Johnny said, shaking his head and laughing.


	2. Chapter 2

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**SI Trigger Warning**

_I didn't expect to live this long, really, I didn't. Hell, I never thought I'd make it past sixteen. I'm not entirely sure why but that's the truth. _

_But I have – I've lived a lot longer than I would have thought possible back then. _

_I suppose it would be normal to feel grateful for these extra years. But, honestly, it's not really living. I know I'm on borrowed time. Just because no one else has figured it out yet doesn't mean I'm not already dead._

_I may do my job and tell jokes all the time and look like I've got it all together, but it's only when I cut myself that I feel alive._

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"Well, you're right, Chet: you definitely lost a hunk of flesh there. But I think you'll be fine with just a bandage," John concluded. "Barbed wire, you said?"

"Barbed wire _and_ a clumsy neighbor chick," Chet replied in a disgusted tone of voice. "She was trying to clear out some of the scrub along that old fence in the back. So, I go over to help her out and almost as soon as I get there, she manages to snip the wire instead of the brush and _boing!_ the wire snaps back and catches me right across the forearm."

"Had a tetanus shot recently?" Johnny broke in as he began wrapping the other man's forearm.

"Yeah, a couple of months back," he said, falling silent as he remembered the cut which had prompted the shot and how it had changed his life. He gave himself a mental shake before Johnny could notice his silence. "Hey, thanks for coming in early to, you know, check this out."

"Anytime, Chet," Gage replied, putting the extra supplies back in his kit. He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "You know, you don't live that far from me. If you need me to come over sometime, just let me know."

"Thanks, Johnny," Chet said. "I might just have to do that if this, uh, clumsy streak keeps up."

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C-Shift was out on a run and none of the rest of the A-Shift was in yet, so the whole station seemed unnaturally quiet as Johnny made his way across the bay.

"How's Chet?" Hank asked without preamble when Johnny stepped into the office.

"He's okay. Got a bit sliced out of his arm but it's not serious enough for stitches," John replied. "I'll check it again later to make sure no infection has set in." When Chet had called him last evening, asking him to come to the station early this morning, John had agreed – and immediately called Cap to fill him in.

"What happened, did he say?"

"He apparently tangled with a little barbed wire … and 'a clumsy neighbor chick' on his days off."

"That 'clumsy neighbor chick' is becoming a menace to my lineman," growled Stanley. "This is, what, the fourth or fifth time he's had one of these … cuts, in the last three months."

"Fifth," John confirmed, running over the injuries in his mind: cut his hand while cooking, snipped by garden shears when his neighbor mistook his hairy arm for a shrub (ha!), sliced his finger after the bottle he was opening for his neighbor broke, and – oh, what was the last one before this?

"Keep an eye on him," Hank's voice broke into Johnny's thoughts. "I got a bad feeling about this." The bay doors began to rise, signaling the return of C-Shift.

"Me too, Cap, me too."

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In the locker room, Marco Lopez noticed the new bandage on his shiftmate's arm almost immediately. "Hey, _amigo_, what did I tell you last time about tangling _con gatos_?"

"Nah, man, it wasn't _un gato_, it was _una_ _chica_," Kelly replied with a smirk, raising his eyebrows suggestively. At Marco's highly skeptical look, he added, "Okay, it was barbed wire." Pause. "And _una chica caliente_."

"I'm pretty sure an old married man like me shouldn't hear any more of this story," Roy DeSoto quipped from the doorway, grinning more broadly when Chet flushed. He recognized his partner's tape-up on the gauze wrap so he was confident the situation with Chet – _whatever_ it was – was under control for the moment.

"Oh, _sure_, Roy, spoil it for the rest of us," Marco retorted.

"Yeah, man, how could you?" Stoker deadpanned from the corner, causing everyone to burst out laughing.

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The fire in the small warehouse had been burning for some time before the fire department arrived on scene. A security guard confirmed no one was inside, to Captain Stanley's relief. This warehouse was a cramped maze of odd-shaped packages containing who knew what. The thick black smoke pouring out suggested plastics or other synthetics were a major component and he had his men don SCBA gear as a precaution. They'd handle this one from the outside as long as possible.

Lopez backed up Kelly on the two-and-a-half. Forward-most foot angled to provide a backstop, Marco leaned into his partner's back, countering the backward pressure from the hose. Chet directed the stream of water into the fire, moving the nozzle in circular patterns or side-to-side sweeps as the fire reacted to the water's intrusion into its element. Sooner than usual, Marco tapped Chet's shoulder to signal it was time to switch places so he could take the nozzle.

The two men traded off with a smoothness and economy of motion born of countless repetitions at countless fires. The circling and sweeping could be hard on the forearms, both the weight of the charged line and the motion itself, so it was normal for partners to spell one another.

When Kelly tapped Marco's shoulder to take the nozzle again, however, Marco ignored him. Chet shrugged mentally; sometimes Marco just wanted to stay on the nozzle. After his second signal was also ignored, Chet started to get a little annoyed and poked Marco again, harder. The other man nodded at last, sweat dripping down his face, and they traded off.

It wasn't long before Lopez tapped his partner on the shoulder again. _What is up with Marco this morning?_ Chet said to himself as they switched places once more. _Whatever_, he thought and concentrated on being rock-steady for his nozzle-man as they began to advance into the building. If Marco wanted to be the front man at this fire, Chet would back him up faithfully, the way a good lineman should. He might not be ready to be an engineer yet, but this? This he could do.


	3. Chapter 3

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**SI Trigger Warning**

_Look, it's not that I want to kill myself. I'm just trying to cope with life's disappointments. Like that test. _

_You see, no matter what I try to do, I just can't make the grade. What it comes down to is, I'm not good enough. I would quit this job but then what would I do? What chance is there I would do better at something else? My mind is running around in circles and **I CAN'T MAKE IT STOP**. _

_So I pick up a razor…because I know I **can** make it stop … this way …._

_The first cut is shallow; a delicate line of blood springs up on my leg. There's no real pain and my anxiety seems to flow out with the blood. I make another cut just above the first, just a little deeper. I've got plenty of flesh there so I don't really worry about how deep the cut is. Seeing the blood well up then slide off the side of my leg and onto the floor tiles immediately makes me relax. _

_It's okay now. I can handle it. I breathe in, breathe out. _

_See? Two little cuts. I told you I'm not trying to kill myself. I just need a little bit of help sometimes coping. And making **this** kinda cut works for me._

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Johnny had been tempted to spend his three days off up in the mountains, camping. The solitude of nature would soothe away the rough edges of emotion, and the weather was perfect. Instead, he stayed close to home, working on some of the more mundane aspects of home ownership he'd been avoiding lately. He'd been attuned to the ringing of the phone more than usual. In fact, he had talked briefly with no less than six telemarketers before 2 p.m. and had considered not answering the phone anymore. But, like Cap had said, he had a bad feeling about this whole thing with Chet. All he could do was be ready to help – even if that meant hearing "Do I have a deal for you, sir!" over … and over … and over….

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"Hey, neighbor," Chet called softly through the screen door. The young woman sitting at the table looked up with a tired smile and waved him in. "You look like you've had a hard day," he said, coming in and sitting across from her.

"Just long," Christina said, stretching her shoulders and neck slowly. "No real breaks."

"Well, I just _happen_ to have a couple of steaks on the grill…," he said, blue eyes twinkling. "Care to join me for supper?"

"If I weren't expecting a phone call, I'd take you up on that." She laughed. "I don't suppose you deliver?"

"As a matter of fact, I do, hon," he said. "Give me a couple of minutes and I'll bring over a feast fit for a king. Sound good?"

"Chester, that sounds better than good." She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "It sounds wonderful."

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_Ring. Ring. _

_You said if I needed you, I should call. Well, I'm calling now. _

_Ring. _

_I'm scared. I don't want to die. Answer the phone!_

_Ri – _

"_Hello?" a male voice said sleepily._

"_I-I need your help. I c-cut myself." The other voice sounded weak, panicky._

"_I'll be right over, okay? Put pressure on it, okay? Just hold on."_

"_I couldn't find my razor. There's so much blood …."_

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_Ring. Ring._

A long arm unbent and reached out, hand fumbling for the phone by the bed.

_Ri – ._

"Hullo?" the dark-haired man said sleepily into the phone.

"John, it's Chet. I need your help." The anxiety in Kelly's voice brought Gage out of bed fast.

"On my way," John replied, the surge of adrenaline kicking out any sleepiness that might have wanted to linger in his brain at 2:17 a.m.

"Better bring your kit, man," Kelly said. "I can't stop this on my own."

"Hold on, pal, I'm coming," John said, pulling on his jeans and grabbing a shirt.

Six minutes later, John had hopped out of his Rover and was running bare-footed up the short drive to Chet's duplex, unbuttoned shirt flying behind him. He pounded on the door of Chet's place. "Chet!"

"Here! We're over here!" came a hoarse shout from the other unit.


	4. Chapter 4

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**SI Trigger Warning**

John Gage had been a paramedic for over five years; he'd seen traffic accidents, industrial accidents, homicides, and suicides. But when he stepped through the door, he was shaken to the core by the sight of Chet Kelly – blue eyes wide open in shock, deep red smears over his white t-shirt, broken glass glinting on the floor beside him.

"Johnny, help me! I can't stop the bleeding this time," Chet said, his desperation evident as he half-knelt beside his unconscious neighbor's body, one hand squeezing shut a cut on her left forearm, the other clamping a blood-stained towel over a series of jagged lacerations on her right thigh.

Chet's plea brought out the paramedic in John. "Easy, Chet, easy. I'm here," he murmured comfortingly while soaking up the details of the scene. He guessed she was in her mid-twenties. Her long, rusty brown hair was piled up on her head, revealing delicate features, now unnaturally pale, except for a smear of blood on her cheek. Small cuts and scars decorated the portion of her arms not hidden by her long-sleeved nightgown. One of the longer scars was jagged and slightly concave, suggesting the cut had been deeper than the others.

A piece of broken glass nestled beside her blood-streaked right hand.

The two small lateral cuts on the top of her left thigh appeared recent – within the last day or so – but superficial. Her right thigh, on the other hand, was a mess.

He crouched by her head and checked her pupils. She moaned slightly and tried to move away. "Easy, miss, it'll be okay," Johnny assured her. The woman seemed to be breathing without difficulty, her pulse a little fast.

"Chet, switch with me," the paramedic said, motioning. Chet scooted toward her head without loosening his hold on her thigh, sweeping glass particles with him and Johnny stepped over her into the relatively glass-free spot Chet had vacated. "Okay, I got it," he said, laying his hand over Chet's for emphasis. "Chet, get me some gauze," he ordered.

Chet unclenched his right hand from the towel and automatically reached for the supplies Johnny needed. If he didn't look at her face, he could pretend she was just another victim who needed treatment, not someone he knew, someone he had tried to help. _I gotta help Johnny. She's just another victim_, he said to himself.

"Okay, let's see what we've got here," Johnny said mostly to himself as he lifted the towel and tossed it aside. Three jagged longitudinal cuts were carved into her thigh, no doubt by the glass shard nearby. Two cuts were about six inches long, the third perhaps half that. The wounds were well into the muscle but did not appear to have nicked any major arteries or veins. It was still bleeding rather freely, however.

"Can you tell me what happened?" he asked, taking the large gauze pad from Chet's outstretched hand and placing it over the wound. After a quick look at Chet's face, Gage leaned over and pulled his kit toward him. "Chet, tell me what happened."

"I took the razor but it didn't help."

"Chet, stay with me and tell me what happened, okay pally?"

"Christina's a cutter," Chet said numbly, staring down at her face. "She-she cut too deep. She called me."

"Chet, is she on any medications?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Chet, has she had any alcohol to drink?" Johnny wrapped kerlix around Christina's thigh.

"We, we had some red wine with the steak. It was good steak, Johnny, you'd have liked it."

"I'm sure I would have, pal," he murmured consolingly. "So, Chet, how much did she drink?"

"A glass or so. She doesn't drink much."

"Was she – Chet, was she feeling okay after dinner?"

"She was a little agitated, anxious. Sometimes she gets that way. There was a phone call and then she said she had a headache." The cut on her arm wasn't too bad and John made quick work of wrapping it.

"Chet, did she take anything for the headache?"

"Aspirin. I-I told her to, you know, 'take two aspirin and call me in the morning.'" He looked at Johnny, eyes sad. "I guess she did."


	5. Chapter 5

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A few minutes later, sirens could be heard, blipping off as the squad turned onto Palm View Court, the cul-de-sac where Chet lived. The sirens seemed to help Chet pull himself together, enough to go to the door and direct the guys over. Johnny continued to kneel by Christina, checking her blood pressure.

"Kelly, you okay, man?" asked Dwyer who was leading the way up the driveway.

"It's not mine, it's Christina's," he replied in a flat tone, waving him in. The suddenly-silent ambulance pulled up then, the two sets of flashing lights creating a particularly beautiful crimson splash against the side of John's white Rover. All at once, Chet felt sick.

Johnny updated the on-duty paramedics who contacted Rampart. Dwyer started an IV solution of Ringer's lactate in order to offset the effects of Christina's hypovolemia. Sensing Chet would object, Johnny waved Dwyer's partner – some new guy he didn't really know, Erwin? Irvine? something like that – away from offering to check Chet out too. He was grateful when Dwyer redirected the eager young puppy to another task, adjusting the high-flow oxygen.

"This _was_ a suicide attempt, right?" Dwyer asked Johnny quietly as his patient was being lifted into the ambulance a short time later. Chet was standing next to the ambulance, telling Christina he'd see her at the hospital.

"I'm – not exactly." He paused, uncertain of what to say. "We'll follow you into Rampart as soon as we get this place squared away," John finally replied. Dwyer nodded, trusting Gage's judgment.

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Nurse Daisy Britlind had learned to keep one ear open for paramedic calls over the Los Angeles County Fire Department channel, especially when she worked the night shift. It helped her anticipate and plan for whatever crisis might be brought through her doors. At 0219, Squad 51 was toned out to Palm View Court for a 'woman bleeding' call. _I know that address_, she said to herself, a queasy feeling settling in her stomach.

When the expected call came in, Daisy handled it initially at Rampart Emergency's #2 base station. Once the ambulance was en route, and Dr. Jose Estrada had headed back to Treatment 1 to finish with his fracture patient, she decided to contact the squad again. "Squad 51, Rampart. Do you have the patient's name?"

Dwyer responded immediately. "Rampart, 51. Be advised patient is a friend of firefighter Chet Kelly. All I have at present is a first name: Christina."

"10-4, 51." Controlling an urge to scream in frustration, Daisy picked up the phone to dial an in-house extension.

"Records."

"This is Nurse Britlind in the ER. Could you pull the file for Christina Rodgers, R-O-D-G-E-R-S, and send it down?"

"Got a DOB for me?"

"August 15, 195-; she lives on Palm View Court."

"Okay, I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks."

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"Chet, why don't you sit down here and let me take a quick look at you before we go to Rampart?" Johnny suggested, pushing Chet gently into a kitchen chair after the ambulance left. "Did you get any cuts from the glass?" he asked as he began to wipe the blood off Kelly's hands with a wash cloth. _This is where all those weird cuts have been coming from, eh, pal_, he thought.

"Nah, I don't think so," Chet replied in an almost normal tone of voice. Color was coming back into his face and his breathing seemed more relaxed.

Johnny finished inspecting Kelly's hands for damage. "Why don't you go change while I sweep this up and then we'll head to the hospital?" _If I take you in looking like that, buddy, _he thought, _you'd be in Treatment 3 stat, no matter what I said. _

"Sure thing," he said and stood up. "Uh, … broom's beside the 'fridge."

"Thanks," Gage said, heading for the kitchen as Chet went through the front door. After looking at the glass-strewn floor for a minute, however, he turned to follow Chet outside. _Gotta get my shoes before __**I**__ end up being the one with weird cuts_, he said to himself, grabbing his boots from the Rover.

Next door, Chet took a quick three-minute shower to rid his body of at least some of her blood, knowing a more thorough scrubbing would have to wait. When it came to mentally scrubbing away Christina's blood, he'd found it was almost as hard to remove as the sticky black smoke from yesterday's plastics fire, traces of which he was still finding. That scrubbing would also have to wait.

He left his clothes in the tub to soak, although he had little hope the t-shirt would come clean – she'd grabbed at him when he first came through the door, the blood on her hands and from her arm smearing across his chest. Chet pulled gray sweats and a clean t-shirt from a drawer and tugged them on hurriedly. Grabbing his keys and wallet, he slid his feet into soft shoes and locked the door on his way out.

Gage had just finished dumping the broken remains of a bottle of decent red wine into a stout plastic waste can when Chet stuck his curly wet head through the doorway. "Ready?" he asked, then saw the blood-smeared phone on the floor under the table and swallowed hard. _So close._

"Yeah, I think I got most of the glass. The, uh, rest can be cleaned up later, I guess." John had been a little sickened by the way the broom had made wispy patterns on the tile when the bristles had contacted the edges of the congealing blood. Not wanting to spread the mess around more, he'd left the broom leaning against the couch.

"Let me … just a minute," Chet replied, stepping in and going to the small galley kitchen. Without hesitation, he opened the doors under the sink and pulled out an unmarked half-full spray bottle. He sniffed it carefully. Satisfied, he proceeded to liberally spray the liquid over the blood-smeared tiles, carefully avoiding the couch and the throw rug by the front door. John could smell the pungent odor of bleach as he worked. Chet brought the broom to the sink, turned the water on, held the nylon bristles under the faucet for about ten seconds, turned the water off, spritzed the bristles with the bleach solution, and positioned the broom so it would drip into the sink instead of onto the counter or the floor, placing a large jar candle partway down the handle to keep it from spinning off. "That'll take care of it for now," he said, replacing the bottle of bleach-water neatly under the sink.

_You've done that before, haven't you, Chester B.?_ Johnny thought to himself, but led the way to his car without comment, untied hiking boots clumping down the drive.

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Daisy caught sight of the patient's rich reddish-brown hair as the stretcher came into the ER.

It _was_ her.

Resolutely, she tucked the records for _Rodgers, Christina Eileen_, more firmly under the metal chart board she carried. "Treatment 3," she said, staying just ahead of the gurney to get the door. She took the IV from Dwyer, freeing him to help transfer the patient, and hung it on the stand she pulled over. She had started to get a new set of vitals when a compact Hispanic man bounced into the room, his vibrant orange and red button-down shirt barely restrained by his oh-so-proper white doctor's coat and comically somber black tie.

"What have we got here?" Dr. Estrada asked the room as he started to evaluate a wild-eyed but quiet Christina.

"Attempted suicide, doc!" piped up Dwyer's green-as-grass partner.

"Oh?" the doctor responded neutrally, peering over the tops of his dark-rimmed rectangular glasses at the paramedic, Owen Ervaren. _Do these guys come with training wheels?_ he wondered, noticing Dwyer looked like he wanted to swat the kid. After rolling his eyes at his partner's back instead, Dwyer simply reported what Gage had told him about her injuries at the scene, adding Gage and Kelly would probably be arriving soon.

"This was _not_ a suicide attempt," Daisy said firmly before reporting the current vitals. "Pulse 90, respirations 22, blood pressure 125/98." She handed the doctor Christina's medical records, casually flipping the file open to the page she wanted him to see. She could see his dark eyes studying the notes from Christina's last two visits, including the doctor's conclusion: _probable self-mutilator_.

"I see, nurse," he said, handing the file back to her. "We'll take it from here, guys. Thanks," he told the paramedics, releasing them.

"Dai –, uh, Nurse Britlind? This cuff belongs to Gage personally. Can you see that he gets it back?" Dwyer said from the doorway, nodding toward the brightly-colored blood pressure cuff he'd put on the metal table by the door when they'd come in.

"Yes, I'll do that," she replied, smiling slightly at Dwyer's slip-up. "Bye-bye, guys." As the door swung closed, she could hear Dwyer launch into an evaluation of his junior partner's performance: "So, Owen, how do you think that run went?"

"Okay, Miss Rodgers," Dr. Estrada said with an encouraging half-smile, "why don't we take a look at you now?"

* * *

Notes:

(1) Season 4, Episode 7: Daisy's Pick. The character of Daisy, who was not given a last name, was played by actress Brit Lind.

(2) Dr. Jose Estrada was often being paged in the background at Rampart General. I figured it was time for him to answer the page and do some work.

(3) The word _onervaren_ is Dutch for "inexperienced" … which, if you squint and hold your nose right, could become Owen ("oh-en") Ervaren.


	6. Chapter 6

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At this time of night, the only easy access into the hospital would be through Emergency, so John parked in one of the empty spots just down from the ambulance entrance. Before either man could get out of the Rover, an ambulance roared in, backing up to the doors quickly, with the squad from 36s close behind. Instinctively, both men hurried over to lend a hand, but Nurse Britlind was ready and waiting. Two orderlies stepped forward to assist with the first stretcher, leaving the ambulance attendants to take in the second. Both of 36s paramedics hustled along side their respective patients and into waiting treatment rooms, followed by the white-skirted nurses with metal clipboards who'd been holding the doors open.

A third orderly had been hovering in the background with a wheelchair; he pushed it quickly to the passenger door of the squad as soon as the automatic doors were clear of gurney traffic. O'Kane, the fireman who'd driven the squad in, gently helped his elderly passenger out of the vehicle and into the chair. He tucked the compact oxygen bottle under his arm and, when she was settled, minutely adjusted the nasal canula, murmuring, "It'll be alright, Mrs. Wilson, they're in good hands."

The orderly started forward at O'Kane's nod; they were met just beyond the desk by Daisy. "Mr. Thompson, would you and …," Daisy paused, blue eyes looking up expectantly at the fireman carrying the oxygen.

"Michael Sean O'Kane, miss," the fireman supplied breathlessly, a bit starry-eyed at his first encounter with _Daisy-yes-that_-_Daisy_.

"Would you and Mr. _O'Kane_ take Mrs. Wilson to Treatment 5? If you could stay until Miss Connelly gets there, I would appreciate it." She smiled warmly at them both.

"Yes, ma'am," Thompson the orderly replied, hiding a smile at O'Kane's reaction and discretely tugging him along.

=+++= / =++++ ++===

John Gage, however, didn't bother to hide his smile as he watched Miss Daisy Britlind, RN, deftly handle yet another young fireman. And, he was quite frankly impressed by her ability to manage the controlled chaos an ER could be. Dixie had been right about her.

Relations with the single paramedics – and a number of the single firemen – had been strained, to put it mildly, for a few weeks after Daisy cunningly invited _all of them _to the South Carson Orphanage Work Day and Picnic, cheerfully telling each man she'd take care of lunch and flashing him one of those smiles. She'd wanted to help the orphanage, of course, but she'd also wanted to put a damper on the bachelors' mad pursuit of her. Daisy was well aware of the affect her oh-so-pretty smile, oh-so-lovely honey-colored hair, and oh-so-delightful dark blue eyes could have on young men, but she wanted men – especially these men – to respect her as a professional.

She'd maintained a determinedly pleasant and professional demeanor whenever she encountered any of the paramedics or firemen after that. The head nurse, Dixie McCall, had helped the guys see Daisy as a professional first and a pretty face second simply by not hesitating to assign her to the difficult trauma cases coming through the doors even though Daisy was new at Rampart. She _was_ a skilled nurse and, in time, they'd come around.

So, instead of stretching out her given name to sometimes comic proportions ("Daaaaai-syyyy!"), they'd started to call her "Nurse Britlind." Some, like Dwyer, obviously still _thought_ of her as roadside flower but he had tried to curtail the casual usage, and she appreciated it.

Even more, she appreciated that some of them had started coming around the orphanage when they were off shift. The men would do odd jobs, drop off toys or supplies, or just talk with the kids. Daisy carefully avoided asking the full-time staff _which_ firemen were helping out but focused on what they _did_ for the orphans instead. In turn, she wrote glowing reports of the unnamed LACoFD volunteers in the monthly newsletter she produced for the institution's benefactors and forwarded the newsletters to the Fire Chief's office as a courtesy.

"Nurse Britlind," John said in greeting as he stepped over to the counter, Chet beside him.

"Hi, guys," she responded cordially, noticing Chet's worried face as she did. "She's stable, Chester," she said, putting a hand on his arm. "The bleeding is controlled but she'll need some stitches. Dr. Estrada was about to set them in when 36s called in."

"Looks like they caught a bad one," Johnny put in, taking note of the medical hustle and bustle in and out of those rooms, as well as Daisy's familiarity with Chet. _Maybe she knows what's going on._

"MVA with entrapment," Daisy said, supplying the answer to his other unasked question. "Give me just a minute and I'll take you in to see Christina, okay?" She made two quick calls, one to page a Dr. Ralph Clayton for the second time and the other to check on some lab results, then led them to Treatment 3 where Christina waited.

=+++= / =++++ ++===

"Christina?" Her eyes fluttered open at his voice and Chet squeezed her shoulder briefly. "How ya doing?"

"O-okay. Scared," she responded. "I'm sorry about all this trouble, Chester, really. I didn't mean to – ."

"Not a problem," he interrupted gently. "I told you to call if you needed me, and I meant it."

"Yeah, I just – ."

She broke off when the door was pushed open vigorously by an older man with a tired face. Neither John nor Chet recognized him, although the white coat and stethoscope made it apparent he was a doctor. The doctor stopped abruptly when he saw the _civilian_ onlookers in his treatment room – a taller, brown-skinned man with an untucked, half-buttoned, maroon plaid shirt, faded jeans stained with who knew what, and battered-looking hiking boots he hadn't even bothered to tie, and a stockier guy with a bushy mustache, damp curly hair, sweat pants that had seen better days, and a green t-shirt with "Girls Always Make Passes At Guys With Mustaches" emblazoned on it in yellow.

"Out," he said flatly, striding forward. A frantic-looking student nurse followed him into the room, eyes wide.

"Excuse me?" John asked incredulously, put off immediately by the man's pompous tone. As a paramedic, he was also used to some professional courtesy from other medical personnel. It took him a second to realize he didn't _look_ much like a paramedic at present.

"_I_ am _Dr._ Clayton. If _you_ are not related to this patient or directly involved in this patient's care, _I_ want _you_ out," the obviously irritated man replied. His slightly rumpled appearance made it appear he had just been wakened abruptly from a nap.

"Christina, do you want me to stay?" Chet asked quietly, knowing she'd wanted his presence and support the last few times he'd had to bring her here. She nodded and seemed to relax. She didn't like this _Dr_. Clayton person.

"Are you her husband? Her brother? _Father_? _Son_?" His voice was dripping with sarcasm now. "No? Then, _out_."

"Doc, I'd like to – ," Kelly started before Daisy broke in calmly, trying to soothe the irate physician who'd recently been assigned to this shift. She'd already noticed he could be erratic.

"Dr. Clayton, excuse me, but Mr. Kelly is actually an emergency contact for Ms. Rodgers, and authorized to remain in the treatment room." The doctor scowled at her briefly. _Nurses!_

"Fine, nurse" he snapped. "This one" meaning Chet "can stay, but that one" meaning John "has to leave."

"No problem, doc," Gage said casually, keeping the heat he felt out of his voice. "I was just about to ask Nurse Britlind here for a band-aid." He caught Daisy's eyes then held open the door to the adjoining empty treatment room for Daisy to precede him, leaving Christina and Chet with an ill-tempered doctor and a timid-looking student nurse.

=+++= / =++++ ++===

"So, do you actually _need_ a band-aid?" Daisy asked archly, arms folded across her chest. Was this some stupid excuse to get her alone? She'd heard plenty of stories about Johnny Gage but he'd seemed a pretty decent guy. More importantly, Christina was in the next room with a doctor Daisy didn't quite trust.

"I may have stepped on some glass at the scene," Johnny replied cautiously, then took a deep breath. _Not a time to be shy, bucko. _"But what I really wanted was to ask you … about Christina." Disgust or something like it flashed in her eyes. _Does she actually think I am going to hit on a patient, especially one getting stitched up in the next room? C'mon! _he thought, returning the disgusted look. "Hey, look, Chet's my friend. And I need to figure out what's going on with Christina so I can help him deal with this, whatever it is. If you'd seen him earlier, you'd understand."

Daisy stared at him, blue eyes narrowed, for a few very long moments.

"Sit on the table, Mr. Gage, and remove your shoes so I can check your feet for cuts," she said abruptly in her most no-nonsense nurse voice, pulling her professional persona around her like a cloak. John did as he was asked, relieved by her capitulation. She pulled the few items she might need from the cabinet and set them on the bed beside him, before rolling the stool over and sitting down. Daisy examined the inside of his boots first, shaking each boot upside down, tapping a few loose particles out.

Then she grasped his left ankle firmly, and methodically began cleaning his foot with moistened gauze pads. Whenever she encountered a sliver, she carefully tweezed it out then swabbed the area with an antiseptic.

"Christina is a cutter," she said softly, as she wiped down the ball of his left foot.

"That's what Chet said but I don't – ."

"The practice is called self-mutilation, self-abuse, or self-injury," she explained. "It can take many different forms: cutting, burning, scratching, hitting, bruising. Christina is a cutter. That is, she deliberately cuts herself with a sharp object – knife, razor, broken glass, whatever."

"Is she suicidal then?" John asked.

"No, not exactly," she said with a sigh. "She's not trying to kill herself. That's not what she's _trying_ to do, even though that may be the result one of these days if she doesn't get help. No, it's not about dying; in fact, you could say she's trying to feel alive."

"By hurting herself?"

"The pain is better than the numbness," Daisy said with a shrug. "Some self-injurers are trying to punish themselves for something, somewhat like the self-flagellants in the Middle Ages. Others are just trying to feel like they are in control of something in their own life. There are lots of different reasons why someone might cut or scratch or burn." She switched to his other foot, finding a larger sliver almost immediately. The cut bled slightly when she pulled out the glass and she applied a band-aid to it. _Okay, he wasn't lying about needing a band-aid._

"Does she just want medical care and attention? Like someone with Munchhausen's?" The paramedics had just had an in-service on child abuse, including Munchhausen Syndrome by Proxy. He'd come away from _that_ seminar sick to his stomach, and he hadn't been the only one, based on how little had been eaten by the other attendees at lunch.

"No, not really. In fact, cutters typically hide what they are doing to themselves. Judging by Chri – the patient's scars, I'd say she typically cuts on her arms or legs, places that are easy to conceal by wearing long sleeves or pants. I don't really know what her reasons are." _Not this time, at least_, she thought to herself.

"How many times has Chet brought her in?" he asked as she finished his right foot, and pushed back from the gurney. She looked up at him.

"Twice before this that I – ." Chet's angry bellow from the other room interrupted her. Like a jack rabbit with its tail on fire, Johnny was through the door before Daisy could react.

* * *

Notes:

(4) I had planned to use an LACoFD t-shirt here, but reconsidered. My second choice was an "I'm With Stupid" t-shirt but I couldn't really find out how long those shirts had been around. So I searched for "funny t-shirts from the 70s" and ended up at Toxiferous Designs on Zazzle (www DOT zazzle DOT com/toxiferous) and immediately fell in love with this slogan. It is _so_ Chet. No copyright infringement is intended.


	7. Chapter 7

=+++= / ==+++ +====

When John and Daisy had exited the treatment room, Dr. Clayton made a satisfied noise and settled himself on the stool to review Christina's chart and medical record. He took his time, sometimes turning back a few pages as though to compare data, other times searching through several pages rapidly, and never once asking Christina a question or looking at her directly. Then he stopped reading, thoughtfully tapping his fingernail against the metal back of the chart.

_Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. _

_Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. _

_Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. _

_What is this guy waiting on? _Chet asked himself. It seemed like ten minutes had gone by since Johnny had been kicked out. "Uh, doc, is – ," he began.

"You will remain silent, or you will leave, emergency contact or no," Clayton shot back as though he had been waiting, just _waiting_ to deliver the line. "Is that understood?"

"Yes, doctor," Kelly said neutrally, letting out his breath slowly. _What an ego trip this guy is on! Just play along, Chester B., and get Christina taken care of. That's what's important._

Three more silent minutes went by. Chet kept his eye on the wall clock this time in case his mind _had_ been playing tricks on him before and it had only _seemed_ like ten minutes. He squeezed Christina's hand gently. Then the doctor rose from his seat and stepped to Christina's side across from where Chet stood. He waved his hand impatiently, indicating to the nurse that he wanted her to remove the sterile cloth Dr. Estrada had placed over the cut in Christina's arm after examining it initially. He peered at the wound indifferently for a few seconds.

"Suture kit, nurse," Clayton said. She scurried to set it up and swab the cut with an antiseptic. After she had threaded the curved cutting needle with the appropriate type of suture and placed it in the suture holder to his satisfaction, the doctor picked it up without further preamble.

Over the years, Chet had received his fair share of stitches (eighty-three at once was his record) and had watched various medics and doctors stitch wounds closed on his friends and family numerous times. That's why he was surprised when Dr. Clayton leaned over to begin stitching without ordering an injection to anesthetize the area first. He didn't want to incur the wrath of the doctor or be summarily booted from the room but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself: "Aren't ya gonna give her a local first, doc?"

"No, she does not need it," he explained serenely and appeared to jab the needle into Christina's arm with more force than strictly necessary. She flinched and gasped, turning white around the mouth as the doctor slowly pulled the filament through her skin. Her right hand clutched Chet's tightly.

"Uh, doc, I think she needs somethi – ," Chet began, alarmed by the doctor's cavalier attitude. Stitches hurt.

"No." He jabbed the needle into the other side of the laceration, unconcerned by his patient's swift intake of breath.

"Doctor, I _really _don't think she can take this. You _have_ to give her something for the pain," he insisted. Clayton ignored him and prepared to force the needle through her skin again. _Stay calm, Chet, stay calm. _"Look, man, just hold on a minute, alright?" he said, putting his hands up in the universal gesture for stop, trying to project non-threatening reason, tranquility and goodwill, despite the anger he was feeling. "Just _stop _and_ listen_, please?"

Dr. Clayton paused, twisting his head to look up at Chet. "Since it is obvious you cannot remain silent," he observed coolly, "you must leave – _immediately_." His voice sharpened. "Now! Get _out_!"

Dr. Clayton bent over his work and jabbed the needle in again. "Please, no, …," she whispered, sudden tears filling her eyes. It was the last straw.

"**What kind of a person are you? Can't you see she's in **_**pain**_**?"** Chester B. Kelly roared, fists now clenched as he started to step around the foot of the bed toward the – .

=+++= / ==+++ ++===

_Firefighters in general – and those who frequently man  
charged hoses in particular (i.e., "hose jockeys") –  
possess a tremendous amount of upper body strength.  
Lifting weights, practice drills, and the physical demands  
of the job itself practically guarantee it. Strong emotion  
and adrenaline can provoke an increased physical  
response as well._

_This should be kept in mind if it becomes necessary  
to restrain an injured or distraught firefighter._

– _Addendum to _Rampart General Hospital Emergency  
Department Orientation and Procedures Manual

=+++= / ==+++ +++==

When Johnny saw Chet's clenched fists and flushed face, he moved to engulf his shiftmate in a huge bear hug, hoping to slow Chet down just enough to keep him from throwing his career away with a rage-driven punch at the pompous Dr. Clayton. "No, Chet, no, man," he said urgently, directly into Chet's face, forcing his eyes away from the good-for-nothing doctor.

It wasn't elegant, but it worked, deflecting Kelly's flash of anger. John admitted to himself it didn't hurt one bit that Dr. Clayton had immediately flattened himself against the far wall when Chet had yelled.

Releasing Chet slowly, John spoke in his best paramedic-in-charge voice: "Just everybody calm down now. What's going on here?"

"I'd like to know the same thing myself, Johnny," a frowning Dr. Estrada said from the doorway, two large orderlies behind him. He stepped completely into the room, dismissing the orderlies with a look, and focused on the dark-haired paramedic. He'd dealt with Johnny regularly before his wife's pregnancy had prompted a schedule change. Gage indicated Kelly, who was now standing protectively between Clayton and Christina's bed. A rather pale Daisy was stroking her hair and whispering softly to her.

Chet drew in a deep breath, held it for a moment, then let it out slowly. _Pretend you're Stoker, Chester B., _he counseled himself, _pretend you're Stoker._ "Dr. Clayton was suturing the cut on Christina's arm without a local. I objected. Because it was obviously hurting her."

"You are an ignorant boob! It was not _hurting_ her!" Dr. Clayton interjected in disgust. "I can prove it," he continued, grabbing Christina's medical file from the table by the door and knocking the brightly-colored BP cuff to the floor in his haste. He flipped through the pages rapidly. "See? Look _there_." He shoved the file at Jose, pointing at the words at the bottom of the page: _probable self-mutilator_.

"I see, doctor," Dr. Estrada said slowly, closing the folder and coming to a decision. "Ralph, why don't you go get a cup of coffee while I take care of this? I'll meet you in the lounge a little bit later, okay?" He pulled a strained smile onto his face. "We don't need you in here anymore," he said as neutrally as possible, tasting the irony of his words.

"I am glad you see it my way, doctor," Clayton replied, and strode smugly from the room, childishly kicking Johnny's BP cuff into the hallway as he did.

=+++= / ==+++ ++++=

Although he was relieved Clayton was gone and away from Christina, Chet Kelly wasn't sure what had just happened. _Had Dr. Estrada actually agreed with that creep?_ Before he could ask, Dr. Estrada went to the sink and began washing his hands savagely, muttering to himself in rapid Spanish. Chet caught snippets of the doctor's apparent conversation with the sink _and_ the soap _and_ the scrub brush, and thought he recognized phrases he'd heard from Marco – when Marco was, uh, blowing off steam.

For some reason, it made him feel better.

When the doctor finished scrubbing, he dried his hands on the towel Daisy handed him then sat down next to the gurney, positioning himself so it was easy for the patient to see him. "Miss Rodgers?" he said in his gentlest voice. "I want to begin by apologizing for anything and everything Dr. Clayton may have done or said. There is no excuse for his behavior, none. I intend to file a complaint against him and recommend his immediate termination." _And probably get his license pulled too_, he thought, little things about Clayton suddenly adding up.

"That's not really necessary, doc – ," she replied weakly.

"Yes, it is," Chet interrupted firmly.

"It _is_ necessary, Miss Rodgers, for several reasons," the doctor affirmed. "But right now," and his voice returned to a soothing softness, "what is important is to take care of _you_. Those cuts still need to be sutured. Normally, I'd use a local anesthetic but, frankly, because of all that's happened, I'd like to give you a light general sedation instead. You'll be much more calm and comfortable that way. Does that sound alright with you?"

"Y-yes, I just don't want it to hurt anymore," she agreed, her voice breaking.

"I'd also like to keep you overnight," he chuckled, "well, the _rest_ of the night and part of the day, at least, for observation. When you've had some rest, if it is okay with you, we'll talk more about getting you completely well."

Christina looked over at Chet and Daisy, and took a deep breath. "Yes, I'd like that."

=+++= / ==+++ +++++

Right after Clayton had left the treatment room, the student nurse began to look decidedly unwell. John led her over to a stool and had her sit, steadying her with a hand on the shoulder while she drank the cup of water he gave her. He stayed with her, surreptitiously checking her gross vitals, until she calmed down and began to look more like herself. At just that moment, a relieved Daisy approached, saying, "Miss Wilkins? If you are feeling up to it now, why don't we get things ready for Dr. Estrada? He'll want _our_ help with the patient, you know." The girl looked relieved and grateful at the request, and stood up, determined to do the right thing. She had a few other things to report about _Ralphie-boy_.

No longer needed, Johnny slipped quietly into the other treatment room to retrieve his boots. The black rotary phone on the wall reminded him he needed to call Cap. As soon as he'd put his boots on his now glass-free feet and tied the laces properly, he headed out into the hallway to the payphones.


	8. Chapter 8

=+++= / ===++ +====

_Ring. Ri – ._

"Hey, Cap, it's John. I'm at Rampart with Chet. … No, he's okay, Cap, really. It's not him. … No. _I'm_ not hurt either. … Well, Chet called me, I guess a couple of hours ago now, saying he needed help … Me, too. So, when I got to his place, Christina was bleeding pretty badly … uh, she's Chet's tenant … yea, I'd say she's the 'clumsy neighbor chick,' too, Cap. … Uh-huh … Anyway, the ambulance transported her to the hospital, and she's gonna be okay … Chet is really upset, he nearly – uhm, that is he got upset in the exam room and yelled at a doctor … Me, too. … That's the thing, Cap, that's kinda weird. She apparently cut herself. … No, I mean, she _cut_ herself, it wasn't an accident. … Not exactly. … I still don't know what all is up, but I'm pretty sure those accidents Chet's been having recently are related to what's going on with her. … Yeah, I'll find out. … I'm going to take Chet to my place as soon as Christina's settled here. … I didn't think it would be good either. … I'll tell him. … Okay, Cap, I'll keep you posted. Tell Mrs. Captain I'm sorry I woke y'all. Bye."

=+++= / ===++ ++===

"Twit," Hank grumbled as he hung up the phone and lay back down.

"Everything okay, hon?" came his wife's soft voice.

Whatever the call had been about, she knew it wasn't four-alarm fire urgent – her husband would have been out of bed pacing in the den or heading out the door by now if it were. But late-night calls where Hank said things like "hospital" "are _you_ hurt?" "I'm surprised " "attempted suicide?" "what can we do to help?" "Chet shouldn't be alone" and a stern "call me this afternoon with an update" generally were a few steps above a dumpster fire on the Stanley Scale of Seriousness.

"Gage said to tell you he was sorry for waking you up, Mrs. Captain." He could almost hear her eyes roll at Johnny's soubriquet for her. "A friend of Chet's had to go to the hospital tonight and Johnny thinks she's the reason for Chet's odd behavior recently. He was pretty shook up."

"But the boys are both okay?"

"Yeah, they're fine," he said, then sighed. John hadn't told him everything, he knew.

"Good. Now go back to sleep, Stanley."

"Aye-aye, Mrs. Captain," he said cheekily, gathering his wife in his arms, glad she always seemed to know just what to say.

=+++= / ===++ +++==

Johnny was stretched out across his bed, watching the clock.

He'd 'persuaded' Chet to stay at his house simply by ignoring Chet's initial request to be dropped off at his own place until they were just two blocks from John's. At which point Johnny had mumbled something about it being 'too late now' to drop him off since he'd missed the turn. Chet didn't call his bluff, a measure of how out of it he was. At the house, Johnny pulled an extra pillow and blanket out of the closet, and arranged them – and Chet – on the couch. He got a glass of water for Chet and a glass of milk for himself from the kitchen. It was just before five a.m. when he set the glass of water on the end table next to an already asleep Chet.

John had turned the ringer down on the phone in the kitchen before unplugging the living room phone completely. Once in bed, he'd drained the glass of milk, laid back, and fallen asleep immediately. The deep sleep had continued until 7:15 when his neighbor's kids left for school, shouting and laughing as they walked up the street.

Now, he was watching the clock, calculating who would be the first to call.

_Cap won't call Roy first because he knows Joanne's been sick. In fact, since I'm __**not**__ the casualty of the hour, he'll probably wait awhile to even get in touch with him. Now, Stoker's an early riser and Cap knows that, so he could have called him first just because he knew he'd be up. But Marco and Chet are _amigos_ so he might have called Marco __**first**__. Either way, no one is going to call __**here**__ before … say, nine because they won't want to disturb Chet if he's still sleeping. But wait, wasn't Marco going fishing? Maybe he was already gone when Cap called so he might not know until much later. That's not good. … Unless he was going __**with**__ Chet, in which case Marco might __**already**__ know something is up. Which means Marco might have called __**Cap**__ first. But, anyway, someone's going to call here a-ny-time … now! Uh, now! Now?_

_Rin – ._

"Gage," he said into the phone he snatched from the cradle.

"Hi Johnny, how's Chet?"

"Still asleep, man. I figured I'd let him sleep as long as he could."

"How 'bout I bring some breakfast over for you two?"

"Mike, I'm hurt. Don't you think _I_ can make an adequate breakfast for Chester B.?"

"Gage, I've _had_ your 'adequate breakfast' before, remember… and it just doesn't compare to Mama Lopez's breakfast burritos."

"That is the truth," Johnny conceded. "But how did you plan to get your hands on Mama Lopez's burritos?"

"Marco just arranged it, about five minutes after we talked to Cap," Stoker replied, his voice implying it should have been, you know, _obvious_, and Johnny had to laugh.


	9. Chapter 9

=+++= / ====+ +====

Daisy sat in the staff lounge, eyes closed, letting the morning sunlight streaming through the windows warm her tired body. Jose had asked her to stay over after her shift ended, knowing Kel Brackett was going to want to talk to them as soon as possible about Ralph Clayton, MD. _Ah, yes, Ralph Clayton, MD. Ralph Clayton, medical doctor. Medical doctor, my foot!_ she thought with a mental snort. _In his case, MD should stand for mad doctor._ Her weary brain began to amuse itself by combining various anatomical phrases to describe Clayton's personality and professionalism, or lack thereof.

"_Medicus dementius,… Cardio defectum,… Cognitius infirmatius, … Homo interruptus, … Hyperpurulo, … Vermi-vermis …" _

"I've always liked _tursi cum putridi _myself. It sorta rolls off the tongue," Dixie McCall said from the doorway, a grin splashing across her face at Daisy's look of horror when she realized she'd actually been thinking _aloud_. "C'mon now, you're not the only nurse who's played _that_ game. So, what's got you insulting physician anatomy this early in the morning?" Dixie got herself a cup of coffee and sat down across from Daisy. "At least, I assume it's a doctor who's got you upset," she added when the younger woman hesitated.

"Well, I don't know how much I – it's a personnel matter. Dr. Estrada said Dr. Brackett would probably want to talk to us as soon as he got in, so …." Daisy let her voice trail off, not wanting to annoy Dixie by spreading rumors about a doctor. Her discipline of a certain gossipy former nurse named Ann was legend.

"Ah, I see," Dixie said. _Must be about that incident last night_. "Kel should be here any time now, so you just hang tight." She stood up. "If you need to talk when you're done with him, come see me and I'll buy you a cup of coffee, okay?"

"Thanks, Miss McCall," she replied gratefully as Dixie left the lounge in search of answers.

=+++= / ====+ ++==

The smell of Mama Lopez's breakfast burritos and Stoker's coffee wafted into the room, gently enticing Chet from sleep. He pushed himself upright, yawning widely, and headed to the bathroom. When he came into the kitchen a few minutes later, he was not at all surprised to see Marco, Mike and Johnny sitting at the heavy oak table, eating breakfast. A fourth place had already been set for him across from Johnny: three burritos and a dollop of sour cream arranged on a square neon green plate, freshly poured coffee steaming in the matching cup beside it, extra paper napkins positioned between the glass of milk and the bottle of Tabasco sauce.

"Morning, guys," he said as he sat down, reaching for his coffee. _What else could he say?_

"Great t-shirt, man, I love it," Marco exclaimed, immediately wondering how the slogan would sound in Spanish. '_Chicas siempre realice pasadas a chicos con bigotes_' Chet smiled broadly: ah, the solidarity of the 'stache.

"So, do I want to know _how_ everyone ended up here?" he asked casually, digging into his breakfast.

"We were going fishing this morning, remember?" Marco began. "Well, when I got to your place, I realized it was way too early so I decided I'd let you sleep. So, I went to Mike's to borrow his boat like we planned and when I got there, – ."

"I was on the phone with Cap who told me you were here at Johnny's because you'd had a bad night with a friend at the hospital," Mike continued.

"So, I called Mama."

"And I called Johnny."

"Mama started cooking."

"I made a thermos of coffee."

"We picked up the food from Mama."

"And here we are," Mike concluded, raising his coffee cup in a half-salute to his partner-in-kindness across the table who just grinned in return.

Even though the conversational volley had ended, Chet looked from one friend to the other a few more times, then turned to Johnny with a raised eyebrow.

"Don't look at me, man," Johnny said with a shrug and a poorly concealed grin. "I just set the table and poured the milk!"

* * *

Notes:

(5) _Medicus dementius_ Latin: demented doctor  
(6) _Cardio defectum_ Greek/Latin: defective heart  
(7) _Cognitius infirmatius_ Latin: cognitively infirm  
(8) _Homo interruptus_ Latin: man interrupted  
(9) _Hyperpurulo_ Greek/Latin: excessive pus  
(10) _Vermi-vermis_ Latin: worm brain (The vermis is a part of the brain.)  
(11) _Tursi cum putridi_ Latin: swollen with, or full of, rottenness  
(12) Season 4, Episode 3 "Gossip" Although Ann was not fired in this episode, do you really think she could keep her mouth shut?  
(13) _Chicas siemper... _Spanish: Girls always make passes at guys with mustaches. (At least, that's how Bing translated it….)


	10. Chapter 10

=+++= / +==== +====

"You did a lot more than just pour the milk, man."

"Yeah, I set the table, too," Johnny returned lightly, not surprised Chet had waited until they were driving back to his place to mention last night directly. Gage had taken the long way to Chet's, driving slowly, enjoying the morning sun, breathing in the fragrant breeze through the windows.

"You saved her _life_, John."

"I think you were already doing that when I came in; I just provided an assist." He slowed for the turn onto Palm View Court.

"Well, I appreciate it."

"Anytime, pal, anytime," Johnny said, noticing with satisfaction that Marco and Mike had already arrived to start cleaning at Christina's. It was one less thing Chet would have to deal with.

=+++= / +==== ++===

Daisy felt the dull throb of a headache beginning as the elevator doors closed. The conversation with Dr. Brackett had not been comfortable, but it was worth it when he seemed to agree with Dr. Estrada's recommendation. The revelations of Miss Wilkins, the student nurse, were likely to lead to additional action against Ralph Clayton, but frankly Daisy didn't care at this point. All she knew was she'd been awake for too long; what she really wanted was a cup of warm soup and a soft pillow. Sleep, however, would be elusive if she didn't check in on Christina now that she was in her room.

Daisy pushed herself upright when the elevator stopped and made her way down the corridor. _Just five minutes_, she promised herself._ After all, the ward nurse said she was resting_. She let herself into the darkened room quietly.

"Daisy?" a small, scared voice said.

"Right here, sis," she replied soothingly, stepping forward and reaching for the familiar hand. When her fingers encountered a padded leather wrist restraint instead, Daisy took a deep breath, trying to let it out very, very slowly. _Not again._ Her head was pounding in earnest now. _This is going to stop if I have to camp out here!_

=+++= / +==== +++==

"Kel? Could you come with me to 612? I think we may have a problem."

"Sure thing, Dix."

=+++= / +==== ++++=

_Waiting, waiting, waiting. Okay, happy thoughts, happy thoughts. A. Apples. B. Bunnies. Chocolate Cake. Dogwoods. Eggs Bened – no, evergreens. Evergreens are better. E, F. Ferns. G. I need to find more Gs because I can never think of any. G, G, G, – ._

"Are you on _G_'s?"

"Uh, yeah, how did you know?" she asked, smiling down on her.

"Your forehead always crinkles up when you get to _G_, Daisy, because you can't think of anything," Christina said with a little laugh. Thank goodness she was calmer now. "How about gladiola or geranium?"

"You know I don't like to use flowers."

"Okay, how about … garlic? Ginger? Goose? Gazelle? Giraffe?"

"Okay, giraffe. Giraffes are happy things," Daisy said squeezing her sister's hand as Dixie and Dr. Brackett came in.

"What seems to be the problem, nurse?" Brackett asked, crossing his arms in front of him.

"These," she replied simply, holding up the restraints she'd removed from Christina's arms.


	11. Chapter 11

=+++= / ++== +====

When Chet and Johnny came in the room about an hour later, Christina had fallen back asleep. Even in the half-light, Johnny could see her color looked better than earlier. He noticed someone else, not a patient, was sleeping on the other bed facing the wall. A blue blanket was wrapped around her, long hair loose across the pillow. He nudged Chet.

"That's probably her sister," Chet said quietly. "Let's go see Dixie."

"Chester?" a drowsy voice said.

"Yeah, hon, it's me," he replied, gently brushing the rich auburn hair back from her forehead and looking into her deep blue eyes. "I'm here, I'm here."

=+++= / ++=== ++===

"Hey, fellas," Dixie greeted the two men brightly a short time later. "Did you see Christina?"

"She was asleep when we got there but woke up for just a minute," Chet replied.

"And there was someone sleeping on the other bed so we didn't stay. Chet thought it might be her sister," Johnny added.

"That reminds me," the head nurse said, lips twitching into a small smile. "These were left for you two." She handed each of the men a small package from under the counter. "Oh, and, Dr. Brackett needs to talk to you about last night's events. He's in a meeting right now but should be out soon, if you guys want to wait in the lounge."

"Sure thing, Dix," Johnny said, leading the way to the lounge. "Want some coffee, man?" he asked as he pushed open the door.

"Nah, babe, I'm still savoring the memory of Stoker's brew," Chet replied and sat on the couch, intrigued by the package Dixie had given him.

John had known his package contained a blood pressure cuff as soon as Dixie had handed it to him. A good paramedic could recognize the tools of his trade, after all. The folded piece of scrap paper attached to the outside of the package had his name on it. When he opened it, neat script greeted his eyes: _Mr. Gage – Paramedic Dwyer asked me to make sure you got this back. – D. Britlind, RN._

"Well, that's that," he said mostly to himself and pulled off the newsprint it was wrapped in. _Why wrap it anyway?_ A small slip of white paper that had been tucked inside drifted to the floor. He picked it up, read it through three times, and still gaped at the message.

_P.S. – Johnny, thank you for saving my sister's life. I owe you one. Daisy._

=+++= / ++=== +++==

Kelly looked his package over carefully. The small rectangular box was wrapped in what looked like yesterday's comics and secured by medical tape. A blank vitals sheet was folded in thirds and taped to the top of the box. In crisp neat letters were his name and station number: _C. Kelly – 51._

He opened the note first. It was from Daisy.

_Dear Chester –_

_I know you are a good, kind-hearted man. It's so obvious in how you interact with the children at the orphanage, and in the kindnesses you've shown Christina. And so, right about now, I'm guessing you probably feel like you failed Christina somehow, because you couldn't keep her from cutting. Well, you didn't fail her. You saved her life by being there, by calling the fire department and John._

_I know it is difficult caring for someone who copes by cutting, because they have to want to find a different way before you can really help them. You can't take it from them, they have to give it up. As I told you the first time you brought my sister into the ER – until they are ready, sometimes all you can do is listen and pass the band-aids. Christina is one step closer to ready now. Thank you, Chet, for everything._

_Daisy_

He unwrapped the package and smiled through sudden tears at the box of band-aids in his hand.


	12. Epilogue Notes

=+++= / +++== +====

**EPILOGUE**

"And that's about the size of it, guys," Kel Brackett concluded and leaned back in his chair, watching the reactions of his colleagues. Nurse Britlind had convinced him to look into the matter more deeply. What little research he had been able to find so far was disturbing, to say the least.

Joe Early nodded slowly as he considered scenarios in his mind. "It makes sense, Kel," he said thoughtfully, looking up from his hands.

"Sense? How does coddling a patient who likes to cut herself make sense?" Mike Morton exclaimed in disbelief. He agreed Clayton had been out of line but ….

"It's not coddling, Mike, it's treating the whole patient," Joe replied.

"Look at it this way," Kel suggested. "Suppose … you have someone who comes in and says … he had a bad day, got angry, punched a hole in the wall, breaking his hand. Are you going to treat him without using an anesthetic? No, you're not. He might not have felt the pain when he punched the wall but he does now, right? Now what if that same patient comes in every few weeks or months with a new injury? 'I punched another hole in the wall.' 'I kicked the trash can and busted my foot.' After a while, you're going to be asking what is causing this patient to act this way. You might suggest he get help or try coping another way. But are you going to stop using anesthetic just because you learn he has anger issues and poor coping skills? No, you're not. This is the same kind of thing."

"I agree with you to a point, Kel," Morton said, "but isn't cutting different than some guy punching a wall in frustration? I mean, when you _cut_ yourself, you know you are going to _bleed_ and that you _could_ _die_ as a result. That says 'suicidal' to me."

"You know something, Mike? It does to me, too," Brackett admitted frankly. "I don't understand how someone could cut or burn himself and _really_ think that will make everything all better. It's on par with using drugs to escape reality. But you know not everyone who takes pills intends to OD and die. Sometimes the person just wants a little relief, and apparently – and this is anecdotal, by the way – cutting is like a drug for some of these kids in that it provides some relief from emotional pain or anxiety they can't express in … well, _normal_ ways. But the point is, something else is going on with these people. If we exacerbate the situation with poor patient care, it might not be addressed at all."

"Look at the case we were just discussing," Joe put in. "The patient had self-inflicted lacerations on the forearm and the thigh, resulting in considerable blood loss. Both wounds eventually required stitches. She was transported by ambulance and rushed into emergency with all the disorientation that can entail. Initially, she was tagged as an attempted suicide. But, after a preliminary examination, she was left alone in an exam room for about twenty minutes, despite her evident anxiety. Her friends were allowed to see her when they arrived. But the doctor attempted to kick all of them out when he finally arrived, and restricted the one person allowed to remain with her to a very passive role. The doctor did not engage the patient at all, by taking a history, asking about what led up to the injury, or explaining his treatment plan. Over strong objections, the doctor began to suture the wounds without anesthetic, claiming she didn't need anything. The resulting disagreement was neither cordial nor pacific. When she finally received proper medical care for her wounds, she had to be lightly sedated. And then, when she was moved to a room, she was put in restraints, one of which was placed almost directly over her arm sutures. Her complaints regarding her discomfort from the restraints were ignored and she was denied pain medications." Dr. Early paused. "She was labeled, ignored, isolated, abused, traumatized, sedated, restrained, and denied appropriate medications," he summarized, ticking the points off on his fingers. "Now, how likely is it that a patient who receives that kind of treatment is going to want to come back to this hospital?"

"Not very," Morton admitted, knowing where this was heading.

"And how likely is it that said patient is going to ask for help again, from us or anyone, knowing that could happen again?"

"Again, not likely." He frowned. "That's a pretty standard principle: We can't help them if they won't come see us, and they won't come see us again if they are treated poorly the first time. "

"Now, in the context of the patient who self-injures, this lack of concern can be particularly deleterious. When Dixie tells one of our regulars, in no uncertain terms, he ought to be ashamed of himself for not taking proper care of himself, the patient usually comes around and starts to fly right. But here, feelings of guilt and shame are often what _trigger_ a _new_ round of self-abuse, not self-help. So instead of jolting the patient _out_ of the behavior, it just throws them _into_ a new episode of it. And the severity of the injury tends to increase over time …. "

"Which means they may need medical care more urgently but are more reluctant to get it," Morton surmised.

"Right. The patient sees self-injury as way to cope, a way to exercise some measure of control over what he or she feels is an out-of-control situation or emotion. It's a bad way to cope, certainly, but it is a coping mechanism. So, if we try to increase the patient's feelings of security and return control to him or her, by, for example, giving the patient choices when we can, explaining the procedure and why it is necessary, or creating an environment that is more comfortable for the patient, we are less likely to arouse the anxious feelings. It's not always going to be possible to, I dunno, dim the lights in the exam room," Joe conceded, "but acknowledging the request and explaining why it can't be granted may reduce the patient's anxiety. That can also encourage the patient to get help the next time he or she injures, or has an urge to."

"I know I'm not known for my bedside manner, but a calm patient is much easier to treat than an anxious one, so that makes sense. And if patients begin to see this as a safe place," Mike continued thoughtfully, "they might become more willing to get help with the underlying issues – the disease itself, so to speak – and not just the symptoms – the cuts, the bruises, the burns, the breaks." He frowned again, twisting his head to one side.

"Something still bothering you?" Kel asked.

"Yeah," he said with a nod. "Do we just ignore the suicidal potential of this behavior?"

"Absolutely not," Brackett replied firmly. "It's important to ask basic questions: are you thinking of suicide, have you thought about it recently, have you ever attempted to kill yourself. And if the answer is yes, then do a risk assessment. Ask the patient how he would kill himself. Determine how specific and detailed the plan is, how lethal the proposed method would be, whether the patient has access to the means. See what kind of help or support system the patient has, and go from there."

"Suppose I've got a patient who admits to cutting herself but claims she wasn't trying to commit suicide. And, based on what she tells me, I just don't believe her. How do I proceed? Do I just say 'okay then' and leave it at that?"

"It's okay to push a bit with the questions, Mike," Brackett said, the corner of his mouth hitched up in a half smile. "For example, 'I want to believe you but I need to know more about why you are doing this.' If you still aren't convinced, let the patient know you are concerned about her and don't feel comfortable with discharging her until you can get a second opinion. And then get someone in to see her as soon as possible."

"I'm not completely sold on this yet," Mike admitted, "but I'm willing to give it a try."

"I'm in, too, Kel," Joe seconded. "Most of it is just straight-up good medicine and patient care."

"That's all I ask, guys. Now, I want to set up a couple of in-services on this topic, primarily for the emergency department staff and the paramedics, but for the general staff as well. I'd like to alert folks to the phenomenon, establish some basic treatment protocols, and give them a chance to ask questions of someone with experience in this area. The person I'm considering has worked with dozens of teenage girls and a few boys who have injured themselves deliberately, primarily at an orphanage." He smiled. "I'm pretty sure this speaker will be able to draw the crowds in."

=+++= / +++== ++===

**Treatment Protocols for Patients with Self-Inflicted Injuries**

Tuesday, 10:00 a.m. ** Wednesday, 3:00 p.m.

Topics:

What is self-injury? ** Signs of self-injury  
The self-injury cycle ** Self-injury and suicide  
Treatment Protocols  
Care for the Caregiver  
Q & A

Presenters: K. Brackett, MD and D. Britlind, RN

=+++= / =+++=

* * *

Notes

(14) Season 3, Episode 13 "Understanding" (written by Preston Wood) Dixie scolds a patient thusly: "This is an emergency room we're running, not a children's nursery. I've got more important things to do than baby-sit an over-aged juvenile delinquent who hasn't got the common sense of a baby squirrel. Now the next time I see you in here, Sam Jeffers, you're going to wish you'd never been born!" It's one of my favorite Dixie moments.

* * *

**Sources, resources, explanations, acknowledgements**

The Mayo Clinic provides this description of self-injury:

_Self-injury is the act of deliberately harming your own body, such as cutting or burning yourself. It's not meant as a suicide attempt. Rather, self-injury is an unhealthy way to cope with emotional pain, intense anger and frustration._

_While self-injury may bring a momentary sense of calm and a release of tension, it's usually followed by guilt and shame and the return of painful emotions. And with self-injury comes the possibility of inflicting serious and even fatal injuries._

_People who self-injure may use more than one method of harming themselves. Self-injury is often an impulsive act. You may become upset, or triggered, and develop an urge to hurt yourself._

Self-injury (SI) is also known as self-harm, deliberate self-harm, self-abuse, and self-mutilation. The term _self-mutilation_ appears to have been common prior to the 1980s, which is why I have used it in this story. I also thought it had a more pejorative sound to it, which heightened the tension in the scenes with Dr. Ralph Clayton.

Many people associate SI almost exclusively with young white females who cut themselves. Although Christina Rodgers does fit this description, in reality, SI has a broad demographic including males and adults of all races who employ a variety of self-injurious behavior.

The epilogue contains information from several sources.

The information regarding suicide risk assessment was modified from the NSPL's Suicide Risk Assessment Standards / Prompt Questions. Various risk assessment acronyms (SLAP, SADPERSONS, IS PATH WARM) exist; I employed SLAP simply because of its brevity. The version of SLAP I put in Dr. Kelly Brackett's mouth assesses the degree of current suicide risk by evaluating the plan an at-risk person has to kill himself: **Specificity** of plan, **Lethality** of proposed method, **Availability** of proposed method, **Proximity** of helping resources. (_See _www DOT suicidepreventionlifeline DOT org)

Dr. Joe Early's suggestion to return control to the patient as much as possible was gleaned from a document for emergency room personnel found on the "American Self-Harm Information Clearinghouse" website. The document contains additional suggestions as well. (_See_ www DOT selfinjury DOT org/nsiad/erworker2 DOT pdf)

The example of male SI (repeatedly punching a wall) was inspired by information on the FirstSigns website, one of the few sources I found addressing SI in men. (_See_ www DOT lifesigns DOT org DOT uk)

Christina's ER and hospital experience was prompted by examples on the S.A.F.E. Alternatives® (Self Abuse Finally Ends) website. Dr. Brackett's suggestions on how to tactfully push the SI patient about suicidality were also found on this website. (_See_ www DOT selfinjury DOT com)

A number of websites contained information about risk factors, coping strategies, and tips on how to help friends or family who SI. I did not delve into this area in the story because the information conflicted at times, and I didn't feel competent to pick and choose. And, it would have lengthened into a too-long story, in my opinion. Maybe it'll be in a sequel.

Mayo Clinic (www DOT mayoclinic DOT com)  
SAFE Alternatives (www DOT selfinjury DOT com)  
HelpGuide (helpguide DOT org/mental/self_injury DOT htm)  
"The Truth About Self Harm" (www DOT selfharmuk DOT org)

Finally, I also visited an online "support community for self-injurers" (www DOT self-injury DOT net). This website contains a lot of information, both for those who SI and their friends and families. It was definitely an eye-opener, and some sections are definitely not for the faint of heart. I also want to add a "trigger warning" here regarding this site because it does contain strong descriptions of SI. (The "two little cuts" passage is fairly tame in comparison.)

One of my regrets about this story is that the character of Christina Rodgers remained sketchy. I think after telling me so much in the early part of the story, she just didn't feel like talking anymore. Maybe, in a few months or years, she'll open up again.

* * *

**If you are considering harming yourself, please get help.**

**1-800-DONTCUT (SAFE Alternatives crisis line)**

**1-800-273-TALK (National Suicide Prevention Lifeline)**

* * *

I must thank numerous firefighters and paramedics of my local fire department for demonstrating exceptional patience and goodwill toward me as I sought to improve the technical aspects of my writing by asking many, many, many questions about many, many, many things about being hero-firemen and hero-paramedics and providing only moderately tasty baked goods, rapt attention, and amusing injury scenarios for medic-trainees in return. Remaining technical errors are all mine, not theirs.

I do this for fun, not profit. The characters (with the exception of Christina Rodgers) are not mine. The mistakes (without exception) are.


End file.
